


Breathless

by Extrinsic_Demagoguery



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corsetry, General Creepiness, M/M, Non Consensual, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape, Sheriarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Extrinsic_Demagoguery/pseuds/Extrinsic_Demagoguery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That was the most pathetic part--Sherlock Holmes was waiting. For him. To think that he’d once had to string himself up like a puppet and dance on pointed toes, gussy up the detective’s little pet just to get his attention, and now…<br/>Now he was nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous prompt I received on tumblr which was: "Sheriarty rape with corseting."  
> So...that's all this is. It turned out a bit longer than I expected, so I decided to post it here.

Everything was crumbling beneath his fingertips. 

No matter how he tried to catch all the corrupted flesh, Sherlock’s drug-addicted skin fell through the spaces between his fingers. He’d been perfect, once, but now he was…well, he was  _pretty_ , pretty and stupid. He was wasting away, lean muscle atrophied to trembling, spindly fat. It clung to the length of his bones, grey beneath the pale membrane of skin, rotting underneath. Jim would plunge the needle in, push the depressor, and kiss Sherlock’s gaping mouth as he cried noiselessly out. Those slack lips were gummy beneath his own, soggy and wet, chapped slightly about the corners…always open and waiting.  _Waiting._ That was the most pathetic part…Sherlock Holmes was waiting. For  _him_. To think that he’d once had to string himself up like a puppet, dance on pointed toes, gussy up the detective’s little pet just to get his attention, and now…now he was _nothing_. 

Still, it wasn’t all for naught. Sherlock was stretched out on his bed, all slender torso with knobby knees, his flaccid penis a mere disturbance against his smooth, pallid complexion. Jim rather liked him this way. Sometimes. He’d leave the man to die, here, whimpering out for water, trying to quench his thirst with a weak smacking of his lips. It was ugly. And then he would remember him like a child’s doll at the bottom of a cardboard box, so broken and lost, needing his owner. He’d entwine his fingers in those soft curls and  _yank_ ; watch those eyes flood with tears. So predictable, so tedious, so  _boring_  

Sherlock was crumpled on the carpet, having fallen off the bed with sweat-dampened sheets still coiled about his legs. He stunk of heroin, of dandruff, of ammonia seeping out of his wasting pores. Jim sighed and tiptoed forward, nudging Sherlock’s side with the toe of one red sock. Sherlock keened into the carpet, elbows denting the fading meat just above his hips. The odor of the his dying body bothered Jim, but not enough for him to reel back. He dealt in this area, after all, and while he didn’t _like_  getting his hands dirty, there were always extenuating circumstances. With Sherlock’s time being limited, it seemed a fair trade that he get a bit of dirt under his nails. 

Tucking his flexed hands beneath the taller man’s armpits, Jim heaved him upwards, pushing him back onto the bed. Sherlock’s gullet swelled and dropped as he swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing desperately. Those clever eyes were growing dimmer each day…so pretty in their sockets, but less amusing now. Still he doubted they would ever be as flat as John’s. Even in his most strung-out, disoriented state, Sherlock's brain remained a curiosity. It was just  _so_. “There we are, my dear….” Jim muttered, lifting Sherlock’s right leg first, then the left, back onto the bed. There had been days when the man still spat back, drugged limbs flailing wildly, mouth slurring out epithets. Oh, he’d tried so  _hard_ for daddy, using the very cleverest reserves of his brain to try and get himself out of just such a pickle. It was endearing, really, and Jim rather missed it. 

He slid open the top drawer of his wardrobe, flicking his fingertips across the span of folded silks and satins, inhaling the lingering scent of stale cologne that still clung to the fabric. Towards the back he felt it at last: flat rods of whalebone enmeshed in thick, heavy, bolted cloth…an antique. He pulled the corset out daintily, giving it a gentle shake until the firmly twisted cord gave way. It was gorgeous…no frills, just a simple and effective device, though not modeled for Sherlock’s frame. A bit small for him, but Jim never  _was_  too concerned about his comfort. The room seemed blank, somehow, muffled by the intoxicating heat rising off his dolly’s skin. Stay too long here and even a madman would feel insane. Jim crawled onto the bed, cupping a hand to Sherlock’s clammy cheek. The man rolled his head to the side, a line of drool dribbling from his lips, and then closed his lids. 

Jim paid him little mind…Sherlock had just been given his dose, after all, so it was natural he’d be feeling groggy. For a man of such mental tenacity he was still remarkably susceptible to any and all potent drugs—though he’d only tested several dozen. Perhaps it was time to get more creative. Ah, well…there was always later. Maybe. Jim inched one small hand underneath Sherlock, lifting until there was just enough room to wedge the backside of the corset beneath him. Once more he let him fall into place, doing up the front clasps and pausing to admire his handiwork. The finely crafted article was made to sit low on the hips, but on a man of Sherlock’s height it only just covered his bellybutton. Jim gave it a firm yank, exposing the man’s nipples, eyeing it once more. Better…not perfect, no, but better. With that he flattened one hand against the brunette’s gaunt side and pushed with brute force. Sherlock flopped over with a warbled groan. Jim grinned as he climbed onto the taller man’s buttocks, seating himself upon the one squidgy spot left as he curled the laces once, twice, three times around his fists. 

Ah, yes, the make of a quality corset…he could see Sherlock’s waist constricting as he pulled away his breath. Soon his lungs would be forced to occupy a narrow space, diaphragm straining, ribs crushed. Arousal trickled down Jim’s spine to prickle at the web of nerves around his groin. Soft huffing noises fell from Sherlock’s gasping lips, but he was far too weak to make a movement of protest. Jim lurched forward to kiss at the small hairs on the back of his neck, knuckles blanching white and trembling from the force of his pull. Still he did not let up the pressure, biceps burning as he forced the corset tighter. It was only when he himself began to feel physical pain with the brunt of it that he tied it off and released him. Sherlock was squirming, now, one hand limply pawing the sheets in an attempt to flip himself over. Jim simply chuckled, pressing his own colder, smaller hand against the one desperately clawing to subdue it. His own chest was constricting, too, but only with the sweet disgust he felt for his Holmes. 

His free hand trailed down the flat of his belly, thumbing inquisitively at his belt buckle before unclasping it. Sherlock reeked of failure…were it by any other man’s hand, Jim would have found it repulsive. Knowing that he had caused him to falter, to fail, to fall…oh, it was  _marvelous_. Somewhere out there John was still crying himself to sleep over his long-lost and clever master…

“There we go, darling. Hush now.” Jim sing-songed, newly shed of his trousers and pants. His hands found Sherlock’s waist, taught and curved. It was nothing like a woman’s body, not even in this altered state…no matter how those narrow hips were squashed to roundness, they were still hard to the touch. All bone with not a touch of fat to cushion them. Just how Jim liked it. The criminal’s penis was engorged and burning, the swollen weight pressed to the flesh of his belly as he lay snug against the curve of Sherlock’s spine. When he rocked forward, more air was pushed out of him, causing the brunette to burble deliriously. Oh, this was  _fun_. 

He thrust himself inside the man’s anus, the whole of his being feeling Sherlock’s body weep around him as he did so. Sherlock didn’t weep for  _real,_  anymore, only whimpered his discontent, but Jim didn’t need to hear it. He knew…they both knew. It was too easy, taking him like this, but he’d already had the satisfaction of taking him kicking and screaming, gnashing those pearly teeth like a hissy infant. This was past the honeymoon stage he supposed—weren’t all relationships doomed to fail, in the end? The criminal’s chest heaved with dear, life-sustaining air as loudly as possible, just to taunt Sherlock. He inhaled through his nose, running his palms over Sherlock’s tiny waist, up to hold his shoulders. Poor, sweet dolly…

Jim never cried out during sex any longer…the novelty of that had worn off. Sherlock had never seemed particularly disturbed by it, anyhow, so he’d written off the practice. Honest, quiet little huffs were emitted instead, eyelids fluttering shut as he rode his body into orgasm. The pleasure never took him by storm, not these days. It was a slow, warm build, a niggling sensation at the base of his penis that gently traveled to the tip. Pleasant, but not earth shattering. Perhaps he’d never feel like that again. 

Jim let his belly conform to Sherlock’s shape, hands skimming the surface of the man’s scrawny arms. The junctions of his elbows were littered with pinpricks and track marks, little purple streaks worming towards his wrists as the poison drew nearer to his heart. Someday…someday…

Jim sucked in another breath, holding it in his lungs as he pulled out of Sherlock’s hole. Suddenly, watching the man gasp for breath, he no longer wanted to let it go. No longer wished to exhale; nor, perhaps, to inhale. Ever again. 

Everything was crumbling beneath his fingertips. 

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the fact that the only things I've posted so far are Jim-centric, I actually almost never write anything to do with Jim...hence me being a bit shaky at it. Oh well! Practice makes perfect!


End file.
